


Trust

by shalako



Series: Again, but a little bit to the left [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Forced Starvation, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-28 02:46:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20418620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shalako/pseuds/shalako
Summary: Archie seems to be the only one who notices something is wrong with Gold.





	Trust

**Author's Note:**

> In the notes for Home, I said I'd used the same basic plot about 7 different times, so now I'm posting the variants. This is, I think, the oldest variant of the same theme, using Malcolm as the kidnapper instead of Zelena.
> 
> Also, sorry for the long absence. I moved to a different account because I decided to start posting one new, complete fic per day (this was back in February or March, I think), and none of them are for OUaT or Archie/Gold, so I didn't want to spam my subscribers. Idk if I'll ever write more Golden Cricket fics on this account, but I'll probably post some of my old unpublished stuff.

Emma has trouble identifying the voice on the phone  — male, weak, broken. She’s too busy concentrating on the words to recognize the voice.

“I’m being kept in a house on the edge of the town boundary,” the man whispers, his voice shaking. “A farmhouse. White. Green shutters. Black roof.”

“You’re being … kept?” Emma asks, but the man is already speaking.

“I’m locked in a room on the … on the second floor, I think. The man  — the man who’s been sending out pictures. Of little kids — ”

“The dirty pictures?” Emma asks, her mind sharpening.

“He’s keeping me here. I don’t know how long  — how long it’s — ”

There’s a clattering noise and a long, strained silence. Then the man is back, his voice even quieter than before.

“He’s coming. Please hurry.”

“I—”

A click sounds in Emma’s ear  — the man has hung up.

* * *

She gets to the house first, with her brand-new deputies  — David, Ruby, and Mary Margaret  — chasing behind her in their own respective cars. Emma can see movement in a window on the second floor, but a moment later she can hear doors slamming and someone’s panicked footsteps running through the house.

She disappears through the doorway just as Ruby exits her car. Finding the perp is easy game; he runs straight into her, trying to sneak out through the kitchen door, and trips over his own feet. The first impression Emma gets of him is his shockingly-gray mop of hair. She’d been expecting a young man for some reason, not an old guy in his sixties.

But she picks him up off the floor and handcuffs him as he tries to fight his way free. She can barely make out what he’s saying, his accent is so thick, and she hauls him out the door past Ruby, past David, past Mary Margaret.

“David,” she says, pushing the perp into the backseat of her car, “watch him. There’s still someone in the house.”

He nods and stations himself outside the car, peering into the window at the gray-haired man who is still spitting and cursing at them. Emma turns to the other two women and motions for them to follow her.

They find him in a bedroom on the second floor, wearing nothing but a burlap sack over his face. Rope is laced around his ankles and wrists and he’s sitting on the floor, holding as still as he can while trembling. All three women freeze in the doorway. Then —

“Mary Margaret,” Emma says quietly, “call Dr. Hopper, okay? Tell him to get down here as soon as he can.”

* * *

Ruby feels like her breath has been stolen. She doesn’t know what to do; she can see the man shaking, can see the wounds he has along his arms and legs, the bruises on his ribs, but she can’t figure out what to do. Emma seems frozen, too; or maybe just appalled.

“Sir?” Ruby calls out, finally finding her voice. The man in the corner flinches, his chest rising and falling rapidly. 

“Sir, this is Sheriff Swan,” says Emma, her words somehow seeming far more firm and reassuring than Ruby’s. “The man who was holding you has been arrested. We’re here to help you.”

He doesn’t move or respond. Ruby glances at Emma, desperately seeking guidance. But Emma looks just as lost as she feels. Ruby takes a deep breath and gathers her thoughts, and then she slowly, carefully, crosses the room.

“Sir?” she says. “I don’t know if you know me. I’m Ruby Lucas, I work at Granny’s Diner?”

The man doesn’t answer; he turns slightly away, trying to hide his private parts from view. Ruby catches a glimpse anyway, though she averts her gaze  — the man is uncircumcised. Ruby makes a quick detour, pulling a throw blanket off the bed in the corner. She drapes it over the man’s legs and he seems to relax a little. Something in his posture seems almost confused.

“Figured you could use some privacy,” Ruby says gently. “Can I untie your hands?”

There’s a brief pause, and then the man slowly turns his back to her. She begins to pick at the knot holding his wrists together; she can see rope burns criss-crossing over his skin and feel him shaking; a low whine escapes his throat, barely audible and barely identifiable.

In a few short moments, his hands are free. The man pulls them away, his breath quickening, and he reaches over the blanket on his lap to struggle with the ropes at his feet. He doesn’t remove the burlap sack; when Ruby reaches up to touch it, he freezes.

Ruby looks over at Emma, who is still standing in the doorway with an uncertain look on her face.

“Sir?” Ruby asks. “Is it okay if I remove your mask?”

There is a long pause. The man’s trembling has intensified but he doesn’t seem able to move. Finally, he whispers, “No.”

Ruby draws her hand back and silence falls as the man undoes the knot around his ankles. He pauses for a moment to put his face against his knees, and Ruby and Emma can both hear him sniff. Then he regains his composure  — as much as he can while naked  — and pulls the rope away from his feet.

Ruby looks around her; there’s a closet across from the bed, and she pulls out of her crouch to look inside it. There are three hangers inside, one of them empty  — Ruby grabs the sweater and jeans off the other two and turns back to the room.

“What’s your name?” Emma is asking the man, kneeling in front of him. The man doesn’t answer; silently, Ruby hands the clothes over to Emma, who places them next to the man’s fingertips. He grabs a handful of the sweater, then releases it and grabs it again, pulling it close to his chest.

“Do you need help getting dressed?” Ruby asks. She hears a noise in the hallway and a quiet gasp as Mary Margaret rejoins them. The man shakes his head.

“We’ll leave you alone, then,” Emma says. “We’ll be right outside the door, okay? Call if you need us.”

The man doesn’t respond. Slowly, they back out of the room, closing the door behind them. Ruby catches Mary Margaret up on what’s happened; they can hear quiet rustling noises from inside the bedroom as the man gets dressed.

When he says, “You can come in now,” Ruby almost recognizes his voice, but she can’t quite place it. They enter and find him sitting on the bed, wearing the red sweater and the jeans and the burlap sack. His ankles are crossed and he’s picking at his cuticles nervously, not saying a word.

“Okay,” Emma says. “Are you ready to take the mask off now? We have to bring you home.”

The man doesn’t respond for a while; he hangs his head, as though he’s staring at his hands. Then, very slowly, he nods and reaches for the burlap sack.

He pulls it over his head and Ruby realizes where she’s heard his voice a moment before she sees his face.

It’s Mr. Gold.

* * *

He won’t look them in the eye; when Mary Margaret raises her hand to touch the bruise forming on his cheek, he closes his eyes and tries not to flinch.

“Mr. Gold,” Emma says, sounding breathless and unsure. “Are you … are you alright?”

He’s quiet for a long time, staring at the ground.

“I don’t think I can walk far,” he says eventually. “The room is spinning.”

“Well, take your time.” Mary Margaret seems unnerved, even intimidated, and she backs away from Mr. Gold as fast as possible.

“Any idea who was keeping you captive?” Emma asks. The gentleness is gone from her voice; she seems to have decided that brusqueness is the best response.

“Yes,” says Mr. Gold, still staring at the floor. He pulls his legs up onto the bed and hides his face in his knees, looking for a moment like a child. He doesn’t elaborate any further.

“Well, he’s in the car right now,” Emma tells him. “David Nolan is watching him. We’re gonna search around the house to see what we can find, okay? Do you want someone to stay with you?”

Gold shakes his head. They’re about to leave the room when he speaks again. 

“Do I have to stay in the house?”

Ruby blinks at him, uncertain what he means. Gold’s face is still hidden in his knees, one hand on the back of his neck; he’s still trembling, just a little.

“No,” Emma says finally. “You can wait outside. David’s out there  — just don’t leave without telling anybody, okay? We still need to take your statement.”

* * *

When Archie arrives, he finds Emma, Ruby, Mary Margaret, and David all standing in a group, with Mr. Gold off to the side. He’s surprised to see Mr. Gold dressed so casually and wonders for a moment what he’s doing here  — does he own the property? Is he the one they arrested? But he doesn’t have handcuffs on …

“Archie,” Ruby greets him, breaking off from the group. She puts a hand on his arm, steering him a few feet away. “Hi. We, um  — we called you cuz we thought Gold might need someone to talk to, but that was before we actually knew it was  _ him _ . He seems fine.”

Archie raises his eyebrows  — Gold is the man Mary Margaret told him about? The man locked in a room naked, with bruises on his body? He does look a little off. His face is bruised, his lip split, his hair uncombed. Archie walks past Ruby without a word, strides right through the group, interrupting their conversation with a single question.

“Mr. Gold, are you okay?”

There’s a sudden silence. Gold stares at Archie with wide eyes, his face pale. He looks almost scared that someone is talking to him.

“Are you hurt?” Archie asks. “Have you been to the hospital yet  — when was the last time you — ”

Gold’s lips start to tremble. He clasps a hand over his mouth to muffle a sudden sob and shakes his head even as he started to cry. For a moment, there’s nothing but a shocked silence, everybody staring at him. Then Archie reaches forward and pulls him into a hug.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You’re going to be okay. I got you.”

Gold is shaking uncontrollably and leaning on Archie hard, more for support than anything else. He tries to speak, but the words come out thin and strangled.

“Sorry,” he says over and over again, the only word Archie can make out. “Sorry. Sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Archie says. He rubs Gold’s back; for a while, Emma and her deputies stare at them before they all start to feel awkward and look away. Archie takes a few steps away from the group without breaking the hug; when he feels like they’re far enough, he pulls away and, keeping a hand on Gold’s back, leads the other man to his car.

Archie helps Gold into the passenger side, pointedly ignoring the look Emma gives him as he moves around to the driver’s seat. Archie starts the car and pulls away in silence; Gold is the quietest crier Archie has ever met  — even his sniffles are soundless.

“So,” Archie says, when they can no longer see the farmhouse behind them, “you were still standing back there, so I guess you’re not in danger of dying anytime soon. Do you want to go to the hospital or get something to eat first?”

He glances over, catches Gold wiping his eyes.

“I’m not hungry,” Gold murmurs. He turns his head toward the window, denying Archie a glimpse of his face. 

“When was the last time you ate?” Archie asks. There’s a long pause before Gold answers.

“I don’t know,” he says. “A few … I don’t know. I think a few days.”

Archie absorbs that information, trying not to look as scared as he feels. “Have you had anything to drink?” he asks.

“Water,” Gold says. 

“Okay,” Archie says. “So how about this  — I can take you to my house, where you can have some chicken broth. Or I can take you to the hospital, where they’ll probably put you on an IV. The hospital is the better choice, but if you’re scared of needles — ”

“Your house,” Gold says. Archie nods; they drive in silence for a while, and when the hospital looms in sight, Archie pretends not to notice the way Gold goes still, holding his breath until they’re well past it. He relaxes slowly but surely  — when they reach Archie’s house, Archie parks in the driveway, undoes his seatbelt, looks over at Gold … and realizes Gold is fast asleep.

“Gold?” Archie says. He reaches out tentatively and touches Gold’s shoulder. “Hey. We’re here.”

Gold stirs slowly, then jumps and stares at Archie with wide eyes.

“Just me,” says Archie, holding his hands up where Gold can see them. Eventually, Gold nods and undoes his seatbelt. They walk to the house slowly, with Archie supporting Gold the whole way. In the kitchen, Gold disconnects from Archie and sinks into an uncomfortable wooden chair Archie had picked up at a garage sale.

Archie waits a moment to make sure Gold isn’t going to fall off the chair and then turns to his pantry, searching for the chicken broth. When Archie moves over to the stove to heat it up, he hears Gold start sniffling again; Archie deliberately keeps his eyes on the stove, his face turning red with sympathy.

“Gonna add some vegetables,” Archie murmurs after a few minutes, motioning toward the fridge, which is across the room. He waits another second before turning around, giving Gold time to compose himself; Gold sits with his hands clasped in front of his mouth, his eyes dry but red-rimmed. His arms are trembling noticeably; Archie grabs celery, carrots, and onions from the fridge and turns around again hastily. For the next few minutes, he looks at nothing but the cutting board.

At the table, Gold closes his eyes and tries to will himself to stop crying. As soon as Archie stopped looking at him, tears had started rolling down his cheeks again and Gold can’t seem to stop them. He steals a glance at Archie  — back still turned  — and then leans across the table to pull a box of tissues closer to him. Gold goes to work silently cleaning his face.

_ Don’t think about anything but this _ , he tells himself.  _ Don’t think about that house. Don’t think about Dad. Think about this house, and Dr. Hopper, and the soup he’s making. _

No one has ever made Gold food before. Not that he can remember, at least; it’s possible a foster parent had done so at some point, but if so, the memory is foggy now. And Gold has been making his own meals since he was three years old. They’re the same dysfunctional meals any toddler would make. Gold can remember days where he ate nothing but a few crackers or a bowl of rice. Sometimes Dad would ask him what he wanted for dinner  — “But keep it under 50p”  — and Gold would ask for bubblegum. Dad always obliged; he didn’t see anything wrong with a three-year-old having nothing to eat all day but a pack of gum.

So Gold watches Archie cook with a kind of muted awe; part of his brain insists this couldn’t be happening, though he’d had no problem processing the fact that he’d been kidnapped. Eventually, this is what stops him from crying; he’s too fascinated with the concept of someone cooking for him to think about what happened in that farmhouse.

When Archie finally turns around, he finds Gold watching him thoughtfully, with red-rimmed eyes. Gold’s hands are still clasped, and he’s chewing on the tip of one finger without seeming to realize it. Archie wonders if this is a symptom of extreme hunger or if it’s just one of Gold’s many nervous gestures. Why is it that so many people in Storybrooke are frightened of a man who’s so obviously frightened of them? Whenever Archie sees Gold in public, he’s the very picture of anxiety.

Archie shoves those thoughts out of his head and hands Gold a bowl. For a moment, Gold just stares at it; then he reaches out and cups it with both hands, cradling it to his chest. His trembling subsides after a few minutes, and Gold finally sets the bowl down on the table.

“Here,” Archie says, handing Gold a spoon. He takes a seat at the kitchen table, opposite Gold. Gold twists the spoon between his fingers, eyes flickering over Archie’s face.

“You’re not eating?” he asks. There’s a note of uncertainty in his voice.

“Er, I could,” says Archie. Gold doesn’t move or respond; is it possible he’s self-conscious? Doesn’t want Archie to watch him eat? Either way, there’s no point fighting it. Archie goes back to the stove and fixes himself a bowl. Gold doesn’t start eating until Archie has taken several bites.

It isn’t the strongest broth. The vegetables haven’t been cooked long enough and Archie hasn’t used any seasoning at all, but it’s stronger than anything Gold has tasted in weeks and it almost overwhelms him. The first bite sends him into a violent coughing fit; Gold hides his face in the crook of his elbow, turning away from the table entirely. His chest is burning; Gold coughs again and then blinks, sensing something is wrong. There are tiny grey bricks blocking his view of Archie’s kitchen, and his head feels light, unaffected by the laws of gravity.

He hears a voice in the distance saying something he can’t figure out, and then suddenly there’s an arm around his chest. Gold blinks the grey bricks away and finds himself at an angle, his face only a few inches away from Archie’s kitchen floor. He touches the arm around his chest and, as though obeying a silent command, Archie lifts Gold back into his chair.

“Jesus,” Archie says, “you okay?”

Gold folds his arms and hides his face in them again, still coughing weakly. Archie hovers next to him until he stops, one hand on Gold’s shoulder.

“I’m fine,” Gold says eventually. Archie’s hand moves down, squeezing Gold’s arm before letting go. He takes his seat back on the other side of the table, watching Gold in concern. “Just dizzy,” Gold says, finally raising his head. He takes up his spoon and forces down a few more bites.

“Not hungry?” Archie asks. Gold grimaces and shakes his head. “I’d feel better if you finished the bowl,” Archie says.

Nausea is bubbling in Gold’s stomach. He takes five more bites, letting them sit in his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing. Archie keeps sending him quick, furtive looks the whole time, checking to make sure Gold is still okay.

“Are you tired?” Archie asks when Gold puts the spoon down again. “You fell asleep for a bit in the car.”

Gold shrugs with one shoulder, keeping his eyes on the table. Every few minutes, the lump in his throat reappears and his eyes start stinging again, and he has to swallow back another round of tears. Across the table, Archie busies himself with his phone, only to set it down and ignore it when a call from Emma comes in.

“Well,” he says brusquely, “let’s get you to bed, then.”

Gold grimaces. He stays seated as Archie puts the soup away and rinses out the two bowls; wordlessly, Archie sweeps past him and out of the room, clearly expecting Gold to follow. When he doesn’t, Archie doubles back and pokes his head through the doorway.

“Do you need help?” Archie asks.

Gold hasn’t really thought about it. He puts his hands flat against the table and stands with an effort, his bones feeling waterlogged and heavy. Archie hovers closeby; from the look on his face, it seems he expects another dizzy spell.

“Come on,” Archie says, grabbing Gold by the elbow. “This way.”

* * *

Archie’s bed is the most comfortable thing Gold has ever experienced. It’s queen-sized, which seems unbelievably big at the moment, piled high with four different quilts, covered in the softest pillows Gold has ever felt.

He has one moment of bliss so great it brings tears to his eyes again, and then he’s asleep.

Across the room, Archie searches through his dresser for a clean pair of pajama pants, his eyes drawn constantly back to Gold’s sleeping form. He didn’t manage to crawl under the covers before falling asleep, but it doesn’t seem like he’s all the way under yet. His eyes are flickering behind closed lids.

Silently, Archie pads over to the bed and leans over Gold. Slight as he is, he’s really only sleeping on one of the four quilts; Archie grabs the others and pulls them over, covering Gold as best he can. Still sleeping, Gold pulls the blankets over his head, hiding himself entirely.

Well, Archie can’t really blame him for that. He heads back downstairs to where Pongo is waiting patiently by the patio door; his tail starts thumping as soon as Archie comes into sight. Archie lets him out into the backyard and stands by the door, watching him sniff the grass.

He has five missed calls from Emma, and two voicemails he refused to listen to while Gold was awake. Now he presses play and puts the phone to his ear, his face stony and unimpressed as he listens to Emma’s angry diatribe.

“Just call me when Gold’s calmed down,” she says at the end of the call. Archie looks at the timestamp next to the voicemail  — two hours ago, when he’d first started cooking. Funny.

He definitely isn’t gonna call her. He saw the way she and her deputies were treating Gold  — they’d called Archie in a panic, said they needed him for a case of severe trauma. The scene they’d described had been horrible. But they hadn’t known who they were dealing with then; Mary Margaret had described a nameless man tied up naked in a room, and when Archie got there, the nameless man had been unmasked and clothed, and everyone was just … ignoring him.

It bothers the shit out of him. He hasn’t been this angry over something in years, and to think it’s over  _ Gold  _ of all people —

Pongo yelps, slamming his paw against the patio door. Archie slides it open and lets him back into the house.

“Sorry, boo-boo,” he says, and then flinched, looking over his shoulder to make sure his unexpected houseguest isn’t awake and within hearing distance. He really needs to just call dogs by their names from now on. Save himself from embarrassment.

Archie sighs, looks at Pongo, looks at the night sky outside...and looks at the fur-covered sofa in the living room.

“You and me tonight, buddy,” he says.

* * *

Gold doesn’t wake until eleven the next morning, and then he looks at the clock, processes the sun streaming through the window and hitting his face, and goes right back to sleep. He’s warm, he’s comfortable, and neither his leg nor his back ache from sleeping on the floor. He can afford to sleep a few more hours.

When he wakes again, it’s three p.m., and there’s a hand on his forehead, warm and broad. Gold turns away from it, hiding his face in the pillow until he’s willing to open his eyes. When he turns back again, he sees Archie Hopper smiling down at him.

“Oh,” says Gold softly, covering his face with his arm.

“Morning,” Archie says. “I was just checking your temperature. Are you getting up now?”’

Gold considers it. 

“I heated up some food, if you’re hungry,” Archie says. “I know it’s kind of late, but there’s still breakfast if you want some.”

Slowly, Gold pulls himself into a sitting position, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand.

“And Emma’s here to talk to you,” Archie adds.

Gold slips back down beneath the covers.

“Still tired?” Archie asks, a smile in his voice. 

“Exhausted,” says Gold, which isn’t necessarily true. He feels terribly refreshed.

“I can tell her to come back later,” Archie says, sounding like that’s the route he prefers himself. “It’s nothing that can’t--”

A knock on the bedroom door interrupts him. Archie goes silent as it creaks open and Gold sinks further beneath the quilts, covering his head entirely.

“Mr. Gold?” comes Emma’s voice. “You awake?”

Silence. Gold holds his breath, then realizes that won’t be very convincing, and tries to breathe the slow, deep breaths of the sleeping. When a few too many seconds pass without anyone saying anything, Archie murmurs, “He’s awake.”

So Archie is a traitor, Gold notes.

He sits up slowly, not quite looking at Emma. She goes around the bed to sit by Gold’s feet, like Archie is, and Gold tenses horribly when she does it, but she doesn’t stand back up.

“We have your dad in custody,” Emma says. “He’s confessed to kidnapping, er … holding you captive, forced starvation …. I wanted to know if there was anything else, anything he’s not confessing to.”

“No,” says Gold quickly. Emma tries to catch his eye; he looks at Archie instead, his mouth set in a grim line. “There’s nothing else.”

“Well,” says Emma, clasping her hands, “I only ask because we … we found a digital camera at the house, and some of the pictures on it …”

Gold says nothing. He stares down at the blanket, hands twisting in the soft material. If Emma is waiting for him to acknowledge the camera, she won’t be pleased.

“Okay,” says Emma, standing back up. She turns to the door, hesitates, and turns back, briefly catching Archie’s eye before aiming her gaze at Gold. “Well, we’ll be … we’ll be charging him with sexual assault, too.”

Archie winces, and Gold still says nothing. When he next looks up, Emma is gone. He hears a door opening and closing downstairs, and that’s when Archie finally looks at him again. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Gold says. Archie grimaces.

“Yeah, I figured.”

Gold grinds the heel of his palm into his eyes. “I’m … sorry for stealing your bed,” he says. 

“Oh, don’t mention it.” Archie rubs the back of his neck, avoiding Gold’s eyes. He faces the door, mouth thinning into a line, and for a moment, Gold thinks he’s going to say something inane like, There’s pancakes downstairs if you’re hungry.

But instead, Archie sits back down on the edge of the bed and takes Gold’s hand.

“Stay as long as you need,” he says.

His voice is too warm, too genuine. Gold can do nothing but stare down at the quilt, eyes burning, throat tight.

He nods, just once, and sees Archie nodding back in his periphery. With one last squeeze of Gold’s hand, Archie says, “There’s pancakes downstairs if you’re hungry.”

“Predictable,” Gold says.


End file.
